


Requiem for the Lost

by bioloyg



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (no one you'll be mad at me for killing I promise), Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Coming of Age (sort of), Fake Kiss, Fighting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magic, Minor Original Character(s), Mythology References, Nonbinary Sam, Pre-Slash, Prologue, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Winter Falcon, Witch Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-10 19:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12306156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: Long ago, six gifts were created by the divine, our goddess, Gaia. She created the heavens and the earth, and with them, life. But her actions did not go unnoticed, for Fallow was always one step behind Gaia, watching and waiting. Where Gaia was fertility, Fallow was a barren field. Where Gaia created love and peace, Fallow brought forth war and hatred.Fallow had grown accustomed to a lifeless cosmos, but Gaia grew weary as the eons passed, and from her weariness inspiration was born. An inspiration that gave birth to fully realized creations of varying size and shape, all bestowed with Gaia’s six gifts: Time, Knowledge, Power, Creation, Freedom, and Sight.Despite favoring the barren edges of the cosmos, Fallow grew angry and jealous over time, and it was this anger that gave rise to Fallow’s first and only gift to Gaia’s children: Destruction. However, Fallow disguised this gift as Desire, assuming that Gaia was naive. But Gaia knew, and as such she created Truth, a gift she only bestowed upon a sacred few that she enlisted to maintain the balance.~The prologue to a greater story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my little number for the SWBB. BETTER LATE THAN NEVER AMIRITE?
> 
> Anyway, I want to give a big shout out to my betas[@backtozain](http://backtozain.tumblr.com) and [@softsams](http://softsams.tumblr.com) for helping me get this fic to where it is now and an even bigger shout out to my artist [@buckmebxrnes](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com)!!!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this fic! As always, happy reading :)

_Long ago, six gifts were scattered across the Earth to be divided equally between the lands of all her inhabitants. Time, Knowledge, Power, Creation, Freedom, and Sight. These gifts were to be shared, nurtured, and grown. However, it quickly became apparent that mankind could not be trusted to do as Gaia wished. Her gifts were hoarded, stolen, even tarnished, all in pursuit of the most coveted gift:_ **_Power._ **

_Fearing the worst Gaia created a seventh, greater gift, one she shared only with those whom she deemed worthy. The gift of Truth. Even without knowledge, without the freedom to do as they wished, or the ability to see, her guardians always had truth. An unshakable force._

_The Guardians of Truth served her well and maintained the balance of power as best they could, but Gaia knew of an eighth creation. Not a gift, but a curse, one born out of hatred:_ **_Destruction._ **

_Over time her faithful guardians dwindled down to a sacred few, slain by those in pursuit of power. Disgusted by the displays of humanity, Gaia disguised herself and her guardians before leaving behind one last creation and turning her back. In her absence the world grew dim, save the corners of the earth her remaining guardians inhabited…._

.

.

.

His grandmother closes the well-worn tome before resting her hands atop it with a gentle smile.

“Wait, that’s it? What was the eighth gift!?”

The wrinkles in her face deepen as her smile widens, twisting almost tauntingly at the corners. “If I knew then the story wouldn’t be called _Gaia’s Forgotten Gift_ , would it Jamie?”

He frowns. “Well _someone_ has to know.”

A withered hand makes its way to his cheek and his grandmother brushes her thumb over the plump, pink skin there. “They do.”

“Who?” he asks, confused.

“The Guardians.”

James lets out a petulant sigh and says, “Mom said the guardians aren’t real, Grandma.”

His grandmother rolls her eyes and adjusts James in her lap. “Your mother refuses to believe in the unseen, and so do a lot of humans. That doesn’t make you any less real, does it?”

He thinks about that for a second; he supposes that makes sense, though werewolves don’t exactly _want_ people to know they’re real. The thought makes something click. “They’re hiding, aren’t they?”

She nods once and something in her shifts, James can smell it. “There are very few guardians left. Our pack – our _family_ – is one of the privileged few to have met a guardian.”

“What happened to them?”

His grandmother looks down at him and offers up a wan smile. “That’s a story for another day, but I will tell you this: you’ll know one when you see one.”

“How?”

Her smile warms into something bright. “It’s different for each non-human, but to us – well, they kind of smell like cinnamon and _electricity_.”

* * *

“Dearly beloved...” This voice emerges from somewhere in the middle of the ether. The words it speaks seem garbled, as if slowing and and fading into nothingness. “ _ W _ **_e_ ** _ are ga _ **_t_ ** _ h _ **_er_ ** _ ed h̡er̨e ̴tod͏ąy̷ ̕t͟o̧ mo̢̧u̕͠r̴ _ **_n̨_ ** _ ͜͜ _ **_ą͜͏_ ** _ f͜ri̡͠e̷͢n̡d̸̵͡,҉҉͜ to m͝͞o̧͘҉̵͠u̶͘r̕͜n̶͟͡ ͘͜t̡͏͏h̸͠͡ȩ̢̛ ̴̧ _ **_l̵̢͠_ ** _ o̶̡̡͘s̨̕s̡ ̶̧̡̛͝o̵̶͜͞f̴̢͘ ̸-̶̶̢̨͞ _ ”

Suddenly there is only static.

Bucky opens his eyes, looking for the priest in the middle of the cemetery. Looking for his deceased grandmother’s picture atop a casket that shouldn’t be. Instead he sees nothing but a field full of dead grass and a single onyx colored cube that beckons him forward. The closer he gets the more he can make of the image, but the closer he gets the more his chest hurts. It’s almost as if he’s being stabbed right through the heart. Despite the pain that comes with each step forward there’s also a certain sense of relief that finds its way under his skin.

As it turns out the cube isn’t black so much as filled with inky smoke of some sort, and even though the grass around it is scorched, the cube itself is ice cold. Bucky extends a hand to the invisible barrier keeping the tendrils of smoke trapped, but no sooner does he make contact the smoke retreats into the form of a man.

There are no defining features to this figure aside from bright white eyes, eyes that lock onto Bucky with alarming speed. Suddenly the -  _ thing _ is at the edge of the barrier and while Bucky’s instincts tell him to move away, or at the very least remove his hand, he’s paralyzed by fear. Nothing but a passenger in his own body.

The pain in his chest burrows deeper and deeper as the figure extends a hand made up of nothing but smoke, but when their hands map over one anothers, when the two of them align and surpass the barrier, everything dissipates. The rest of the imagined barrier, the barren field, the smoke. All of it disappears until all that’s left is a man who -

***Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep***

A groan slips past Bucky’s dry lips as he blindly reaches toward his bedside table for the alarm clock. He slaps once, twice, three times, finally managing to hit the button. He probably hit snooze again, which is going to suck in about ten minutes when he’s in the shower, but he’ll manage. He always does.

It’s been about thirty some odd years since his grandmother passed away, and every year, like clockwork almost, he seems to have the same exact dream. Inky black smoke filling a cube, a funeral procession, his grandmother’s parting words to him…

Sometimes the scenes are juxtaposed, but the content is always the same. Same words, the same actions; the only thing that ever seems to change is the tone. Each year Bucky feels a strengthening sense of urgency, as though there’s something in these dreams that he’s missing. Some sort of message. Some sort of  _ sign _ .

He’d brush it under the rug, right where he keeps his other problems, but there’s hardly any room. Even if there  _ was _ room for Bucky to brush this off, he’d have a hard time ignoring it what with the increased frequency he seems to be having the dream. Today marks the 17th night in a row.

Bucky jabs his fingers into his temples and swirls them in a circle as if shooing a migraine. “Get out of there, would you?” If anything, his verbal acknowledgment of the dream only serves to make his thoughts race even faster.

It’s odd, but… his chest aches still, and his skin itches quite the same way it does the night before a full moon. With a sigh Bucky pulls himself from bed and makes his way to the bathroom. He sets his hands on either side of the sink and looks into the mirror, but where he expects to see himself he sees a reflection of his grandmother.

This wouldn’t be the first time Bucky’s seen things, so he rubs his eyes, trying not to read into the situation. This time when he looks up at the mirror it’s covered in fog, as if someone took a shower in the two seconds Bucky had taken to rub the sleep from his eyes. His heart pounds just a little bit faster in his chest.

“I’ve really gotta stop drinking before bed,” Bucky says, as if he’s ever gotten drunk in his life. He squints at the fogged over mirror for a moment, as if tempting the fates to show him something else. Nothing happens though.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh and wipes the fog from the mirror with his hand. There’s no image of his grandmother reflected back at him, no ghosts or demons; there is only him. The only thing that’s actually  _ strange _ is his eyes. They’re - well they’re gold. The same kind of gold they turn when he’s shifted.

“There has to be a reasonable explanation for this,” Bucky mutters as he tugs at the skin beneath his eyes. When the gold refuses to budge from his irises, despite his insistent attempts to restore their former blue-grey hue, he sighs and says, “Alright, fine. I’m listening.”

No sooner does he say so the bathroom mirror fogs over again, only this time there are words written on it.

“Uh...” Bucky rubs his eyes a little bit more vigorously and sighs when the words written in fog are still there.  “Sometimes I wish I were human,” he mutters under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

_Samuel, for it is the name of angels, of prophets, of those heard by_ **_God._ **

(Art by @buckmebxrnes-art)

* * *

Sam stares into the mirror, or more specifically, into their eyes. They’re a respectable earthen brown – usually.

A spark catches at the center of Sam’s irises, lighting up the earth like sand struck by lightning. It’s something you could only catch if you were looking for it - but it’s something that’s hard to miss if you do happen to catch a glimpse of it. If Sam worked in a cubicle and stared at a computer screen all day it’d be different, but they’re a group leader, a _therapist_ . They couldn’t exactly explain this away if one of the veterans at the VA happened to see it, and even if they tried their excuses would sound a lot like someone belittling a survivor’s experiences. “ _You must be seeing things._ ” Sam’s sure that’d go over swimmingly.

With a sigh, Sam grabs their phone from their pocket and unlocks it. They swipe their thumb over their screen, stalling for a moment to think. Sam’s mother hates it when they ask questions like this—questions about magic. To be honest, Sam hates asking these questions as much as she must hate trying to find answers she’ll never have. Still, the reassurance from their mother is always appreciated at the very least.

“You know your grandmother never spoke to me about these things, baby. Why do you keep asking?”

Sam’s eyes flicker again, but this time the lightning strike spreads farther, and their irises are lit up far longer. “Because you live in her old house. I just -” Sam sighs. “I just wish she had left something behind. Something to explain all this.”

“She did,” their mother, Darlene, says. “She left a piece of herself in you.”

“For _what_?”

It’s Darlene’s turn to sigh. “You know what I know. Your grandmother was a priestess like her grandmother before her, just as her grandmother before that. She was gifted with a power to protect those in need, and that power was to be passed on -”

“The power to turn on a lightbulb from across the room? The power to change the radio without using my fingers. The power to -”

“Don’t disrespect your power just because you don’t understand it, Sam.”

They roll their eyes and turn away from the bathroom mirror. “What good is having it if I know nothing about it? Who am I supposed to protect with the power to turn on a toaster oven?”

“I don’t **know** , Sam. She was supposed to be the one to teach you. It skips a generation, it always has. You know I would help you if I could, but I _can’t_.”

They let out a disgruntled noise that swirls around in the back of their throat, getting caught. “It’s just frustrating not knowing anything about such a big part of myself. Especially when that something can attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“You think I enjoy knowing so little about my mother?”

“No,” Sam says sorely.

There’s silence for what feels like eons, and then their mother says, “She died before her time, and because of that we were cheated out of her love… _And_ her knowledge.”

~

Over the next few days Sam’s - shit, they don’t know _what_ would they call it. Let’s just say that Sam’s “condition” worsens. The lightning storm taking place in their eyes has grown, turning their eyes a tumultuous yellow-brown hue, much lighter than before and drastically so. But the color of their eyes is one thing, and a somewhat minor thing at that when compared to happenings in the rest of Sam’s body. What’s more important about the supernatural upset brewing within Sam’s eyes is the way they feel. Every morning for the past three and a half weeks Sam’s power has been thrumming and growing erratically, to the point where they’ve been turning on electrical appliances in their home on accident. Just like when they were a kid. Every so often a tendril of electricity will jump across their fingertips, circling and grounding itself shortly thereafter.

Adding to Sam’s stresses is the new veteran that’s been coming to the VA group meetings who refuses to speak, interact, or share anything about themselves. Normally Sam would brush it off and let whoever it was join in at their own pace, but this man looks dingy and tired, and he’s got more than his fair share of physical scars. Sam assumes he’s had his left arm amputated, because he wears a glove over his left hand and not his right, and when he walks he appears to shrink in on himself.

No matter what Sam tries the man just stares at him, beseeching, like Sam can fix everything. His blue-eyed gaze is unnerving, and any time the two of them make eye contact something inside of Sam stirs - like a blender gone mad. It elicits this sense of confused urgency within Sam, scrambling their thoughts and sending their mind on the fritz. And Sam barely knows anything more than the guy’s name.

“James,” Sam says in the most unassuming manner possible. “Would you like to share with us today?”

Matthew, one of Sam’s longest standing attendees, turns around and says, “Yeah c’mon. We never hear a word out of you, man.”

While Sam agrees, they chide Matt. “We can’t pressure him into sharing. You remember how it was for you when you first got here.”

“Well maybe we’re tired of this rando sitting around listening to our personal traumas without offering any help,” Johnathan, a new and more _inflammatory_ member of Sam’s group meetings, says snidely.

This time Sam doesn’t hide the fact that they’re rolling their eyes. “No one is under any obligation to share, and hounding him probably isn’t helping, John.” Sam turns back to the unkempt man, who seems much more tense now, unfortunately. “How bout it, James? You don’t have to share, maybe just introduce yourself, talk about what brought you here.”

The man doesn’t budge, he just looks at Sam with his icy blue eyes like he always does, except this time it - well it hurts. It’s probably a coincidence, but no sooner do the two of them make eye contact, Sam’s hands begin to burn… and that’s when the power in the building goes out.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Not again,” Sam mutters tiredly beneath their breath. They know this is probably their fault, but they’re hoping they can blame it on faulty wiring. “Sylvia?”

“Yeah?” A shaky voice answers. Sam knows she has certain feelings about abrupt and sudden darkness, and while the light from outside is pouring into the room it doesn’t exactly negate the fact that the room is noticeably darker.

“You doin’ alright?” Sam asks as they drop down from the podium.

She nods and gives an awkward shrug. “More or less.”

Sam supposes they can’t ask for much better than that. “I’m gonna go check on the breakers and get maintenance, okay? Matt, you’re in charge until I get back.” Sam grabs a flashlight from the desk in the back corner and tries to turn it on. When it doesn’t so much as flicker they smack it against their hand, and when _that_ does nothing they give the flashlight a little, uh... magical motivation.

“I’ll come with,” a voice says behind Sam, just as they reach the doorway.

Sam’s initial response is no. They’re more than capable of doing it on their own, and they’re also the least likely to be triggered by darkness or an abrupt loud noise. That said, Sam is pretty sure that voice belongs to -

“I need to walk around anyway,” James says.

“Sure…” Sam says, though they draw the word out and it ends up sounding like they’re suspicious. Granted, they **are** , but they’re usually a little better at hiding it.

The two of them make it as far as the entrance to the stairway before Sam breaks and says, “Not a fan of crowds?”

James offers up a strained smile. “You could say that.”

Sam lets out a dry laugh as they walk downstairs. “You know I have smaller meetings on Thursdays, right?”

“No,” he says. “But it wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

“You could always do one-on-one meetings with another one of our counselors. Y’know, skip the whole thing.”

The two of them reach the lower level and open the door to enter the main area. It’s even darker down here what without the windows, but James trails along at a leisurely pace, not at all worried by the fact that the cone of light he should be following is already dim and intermittently helpful at best.

“I prefer your meetings. You’re - interesting.”

 _Interesting_ , Sam thinks as they laugh internally, _you could definitely say that._ “Interesting is only worth so much if I can’t help you,” they say instead.

“I think you can.” James stops and looks at Sam for a moment. “I think you will,” he says, finishing his thought, though it sounds anything but final.

Sam furrows their brow, ready to ask a question James probably doesn’t have the answer to. Instead they shake their head and turn back toward the direction of the breakers to say, “Well, maybe you can help me this time.”

A shadow darts past the breakers just as Sam flashes their light in the direction.  They barely have time to say, “What the -” when the door they came in through slams shut.

James grabs Sam’s wrist. “Do you think maintenance got down here before us?”

Sam flexes their hand nervously. “No.”

“Why not?” James asks, voice quieting to a whisper as he looks around.

“Well,” Sam whispers. “It’s Saturday, for one.”

James looks over his shoulder and when he turns back he says, “Get down,” as if he’s seen something less than personable.

“What is it?” Sam ducks their head to the side to try and catch whatever it was that James saw.

“Get. Down,” James hisses as they usher Sam towards a corner. “Hide behind those boxes.”

Sam pushes back against him. “The hell with that plan. What, do you think I’m some civi-”

“ _Shhh_!” James pushes harder until Sam is behind the boxes, causing them to drop the flashlight. “Just trust me.”

“I don’t even know you!” Sam spits as they slap at his hands. They’re about to explain just how qualified they are to protect themselves when the sound of a gun being cocked interrupts them.

Sam cautiously looks up and hears a _very_ poorly lit man say, “Back away from him.”

James shoots Sam a dirty look. He mouths something, but Sam has no idea what it was because next thing they know, James is turned around and has the intruder by the throat, growling, “Who sent you?”

“He has a _gun_ ,” Sam yells, more focused on the pressing matters, but when they look at the man against the wall it seems he’s already been disarmed. “... Had a gun?” they murmur, confused.

James tightens his grip on the other man’s throat, or at least Sam assumes that’s what happened because they hear a choked off gurgle and a sharp, “Fuck you.”

There’s sounds of shuffling and when Sam looks up they’re in the middle of a fist fight. “I know why you’re here,” James continues, blocking punch after punch. He ducks and jabs the intruder right in the stomach, hard enough to knock the man down.

“You do?” Sam croaks just as the would-be assailant gets out a nearly unintelligible, “Doesn’t matter what you do to me, mutt. There’s more where I came from,” rushing James shortly thereafter.

James manages to get out a derisive snort before he has to dodge the man and push him away. And he must push pretty damn hard because the guy goes flying, taking a couple of flimsy metal shelves with him. Still, the man gets up and charges _again_. Sam considers stepping in, but it’s too dark for them to try and dance their way into the middle of this one. Besides, James seems to have it handled, and they’re more focused on finding the gun.

“The Exalted will not rest until all light has been extinguished,” the intruder warns them as he fails to land a hit for what feels like the millionth time. Some of the effect is lost in between his laborious breaths. “Where one fails, three rise! Exalted be the **Hydra**!”

He pulls out a switchblade and the dance between him and James starts anew, much more practiced and careful on James’ part this time. Just as Sam nears the gun, which traveled a substantial distance, they’re grabbed and put in a headlock. They’ll regret it later, but they rear back to try and hit the assailant with their head and slam their foot over the one behind them. It garners very little response other than a tightened grip unfortunately, but before Sam can panic they’re being plucked from the man’s grasp by James. The same James who manages to manhandle the switchblade from the attacker and, subsequently, stab him.

The man slumps down, both winded and bloodied and slurs out a final, “Three, three, three…”

Sam tries to wrap their head around what the fuck is going on when James curses and scrambles to pick the man up from the ground. “Fucking _cyanide_ ? They’re still doing that?” He angrily shoves the, now limp, man to the side. “ **Fuck**.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and turns back to Sam. “We need to get you out of here.”

As much as Sam agrees with getting the hell out of here, there are things a black person does and does not do. Running from crime scenes is on the don’t list. “Are you out of your mind? We need to report this to the _police_.”

James lets out a disgruntled noise and walks toward the breakers. He resets the switch correlating to the lower level, and when the lights flicker back on he says, “I want you to look at the man on the floor.”

Sam casts an incredulous look in James’ direction, but when they look down at the man on the floor they’re greeted with something - well it _could_ be natural but... “Is that a -” they take a deep breath and try again. “Is that a fucking -”

“Cyclops. Yeah.”

“What the **fuck**?” Sam asks, suddenly nauseous. It feels like the pressure in the room has dropped drastically and it's making everything squiggly.

James grabs the (alleged) cyclops by his ankles and drags him behind the boxes in the corner Sam was supposed to stay hidden behind. “He was after you.”

“How do you - Why would he - _What_?!”

James grabs Sam by the shoulders and looks at them, practically boring holes into their eyes. “I need you to look at me closely.”

Sam does, albeit somewhat against their will. “What?”

“ _Look_.”

The longer Sam looks at him the more their body begins to tingle. They can see a whole world within the irises of James’ eyes, one composed of smoke and blood. Sam sees centuries pass, kings fall, sees emperors rise, but the more they try and decode what they’re looking at, _how_ they’re seeing this, the more that full body tingle turns into a burn and suddenly the lightbulb at the base of the stairs is exploding.  Sam flinches as sparks skid across the cement floor and glass clinks to a halt.

Eventually, when they look back at James, looking for an answer, James’ eyes are an empty gold, and this time Sam can’t look at him for more than a second without a piercing pain shooting through their skull.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sam grits out as they instinctively push James away. “What was that?”

James takes another step back from Sam and says, “That - was all you.” He dusts his hands off on his jeans. “My turn.”

Sam looks up from their hands and squints, but James keeps going. “How much do you know about Gaia’s Guardians of Truth?”

“Gaia’s _what now_?”

“Ugh. Please don’t play stupid right now,” James says as he rubs his face. “Look, I'm here to protect you, but I can't do that if we’re not on the same page.”

Sam tries to shoo the feeling in their skull by rubbing their fingers on their temples in a circular motion. They squeeze their eyes shut, muttering, “A fucking cyclops? Protect me? Obviously it’s time to wake up, Sam. Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

They hear an impatient sigh, presumably from James, or maybe the bogey man. Shit, if cyclops are real maybe Santa is too! “ _Hey._ ” James grabs Sam’s shirt and pulls them out of their head. “You’re Octavia’s grandson, right?”

“Grandchild,” Sam corrects him, unthinkingly. They didn't even stop to figure out how James would know something like that.

James makes a face. “I - okay, _grandchild_. You're her grandchild right?”

Sam nods, but the gesture doesn't seem to relieve James any. If anything, he looks more annoyed. “Just - come with me, we need to talk.” When Sam doesn’t budge James looks up at the ceiling in prayer and says, “ _Please_?”

“What about the -”

“His people will come for him. That’s why we need to get you out of here. _Now_.”

Now, any other day Sam would say, “ _No fucking way._ ” In fact, they kind of want to say it right now anyway. But James has answers, and Sam wants them, so - so they go. They take one last look at the cyclops on the ground and say, “Fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

He should’ve been quicker. It’s been a long time since he’s relied on his more “primal” senses, and because of that he second guessed himself. He doubted that Sam was the person he was looking for and he doubted how quickly other parties were closing in.

Bucky looks over at Sam as they walk along back alleyways, trying to make it to the metro before anyone else spots them. Not that hiding in the back alleys is helping. Sam practically has a glowing neon sign above his head and it says, ‘ **I’M THE GUARDIAN, LOOK AT ME GLOW.** ’

“You do know we’re trying to hide right?” Bucky asks, just to be sure. It’s dark, but not so dark that being a human glowstick would be necessary. When Sam’s only answer is a puzzled look Bucky gestures at him and says, “Your hands. They’re glowing.”

“Well that’s new,” he mutters, fascinated. He quickly stuffs his hands in his pockets, but it does little to dampen the glow.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something but quickly closes it. He casts a sideward glance at Sam once more and then says, “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

That earns Bucky a put upon sigh and a frazzled hand gesture. “Do  _ you _ ? I’m a counselor, not a - a Guardian of Gaia or whatever.”

“Guardian of truth,” Bucky corrects. He takes a deep breath and stops, but it takes Sam a moment to notice. “What  _ do _ you know?”

“What kind of question is that?” Sam asks, obviously irritated. “What do  _ you _ know? Do you know why I’m being attacked? Do you know what I am, what I do?” He lets out a bitter laugh.

Bucky smirks. “Actually -  _ yeah _ . I do.” When Sam looks up he says, “C’mon,” and kicks open a door to a shady looking building. “We can get to metro through here.”

“What exactly is ‘here’?” Sam asks as he glances over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Underground circuit for creatures of the night.”

Sam snorts, like he doesn’t believe it. “Creatures of the night?”

He walks in anyway and Bucky closes the door behind them. “Follow me.”

The closer they get to the lower level of the dilapidated building the better it looks and the louder music becomes. Once they reach the iron door barring them from the lower level Bucky turns back and says, “Follow my lead.”

Sam’s face twists in displeasure. “I didn’t realize we’d be hitting underground nightclubs on this trip.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and knocks six times in a simple pattern. “That’s a gross oversimplification.” As soon as the metal slot moves to the side he says, “Malta sent me.”

“State your business,” says the deep voice behind the door.

“Sanctuary.”

“And the human?”

“He’s with me.”

“ _ They _ ,” Sam says, correcting something.

Bucky pauses and mouths the word ‘they’ back in question, to which Sam points at themself. He shakes his head and turns back to the door. “They’re with me. And they’re not human.” Bucky can hear Sam open their mouth to say something, but he grabs their hand and squeezes it, stalling them.

The iron door opens, revealing a haggard dwarf who says, “Enjoy your time here at Shift.”

Everything inside is tinted red-purple, and the music  _ feels _ more than it sounds. The entire room beats like a heart, and the cacophony of voices drowns out most of the actual lyrics. Bucky maintains his grip on Sam’s hand as they walk through the club, and eventually he finds a them a quiet corner to hole up in. The booth is a little bit more intimate than is strictly necessary, but it’s a club owned by and catered primarily towards werewolves, so it’s unsurprising to say the least.

Still, Sam looks a little suspicious, so Bucky leans toward them and says, “There’s a lot I need to fill you in on, but we’re here to disguise you.”

“Disguise me…” Sam repeats, dubious.

Bucky takes a deep breath, thinking about where to start. “Why don’t we start from the beginning.”

Sam frowns, but in more of an appraising way than an upset one. “Okay. Mind if I go first?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Can we start with who the hell you are? I mean is James even your real name? Are you even a veteran, or did you sneak into the VA to spy on me because I -”

“Whoa,” Bucky says, stopping them. “There’s certain things I’m not sure you’re ready to handle yet so let’s start with the first part.”

Sam lets out a disgruntled sigh and leans back into the booth. They move their hand in a circular motion, prompting Bucky.

“James Barnes,” Bucky says, holding out a hand. “But most people call me Bucky.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, but they shake Bucky’s hand anyway. “Sam Wilson, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Bucky says with a sigh. “But you’re right, I’m not a veteran. At least not from any war you were alive for. My kind are - let’s just say long-lived. I’m middle aged by our standards. I wasn’t at the VA to spy on you though.”

“I - okay. Okay, fine. Let’s say I believe everything you just said. Why  _ were _ you there, then?”

Bucky places his left hand on the table face-up and grabs a pen from his coat. He scribbles a small mark on the palm of his glove and mutters an incantation. The mark begins to glow a faint green hue, and when it does Bucky says, “This isn’t something I can explain; I have to show you. Do you think you can handle that?”

Sam shifts nervously in their seat. “There a catch?”

“There’s no catch,” Bucky says, motioning for Sam’s left hand. “Only consequence. Once I show you, I can’t take it back.”

“What happens if I say no?”

Bucky purses his lips together and unthinkingly runs his thumb over Sam’s palm, eliciting a slight shiver. He looks down at the opened hand and hums. “I don’t know. But no matter what happens, you won’t be safe.”

“And if I say yes?” Sam wonders.

“Then you risk changing your life forever.” Bucky taps the pen against the table and then adds, “And mine, consequently.”

Sam looks down at their hands and says, “Will it explain what the Guardians are, and why you and everyone else are after me?”

“Yes and no.”

“Do it.” Sam thrusts their hand forward again, formally offering it up. “You’ve brought me this far, I might as well humor you.”

“You’re humoring  _ me _ at this point,” Bucky says as he draws the mark on Sam’s palm. “Also this might - hurt. But not in the traditional sense.”

Sam’s brow furrows, but they don’t have time to ask another question because as soon as their hands join the world goes dark.

A figure materializes in the empty plain Bucky recreated with the mark. It’s tall and spindly with hair like spun silk and skin like the earth, textured and rich. When it opens its eyes it smiles, and suddenly the blank space around it blooms with life, with variety. Peaks reach up toward a vast expanse and valleys swoop down, making room for rivers. Flowers and plant life take root where they can, and soon enough the once empty plain is full of life.

The figure sings something in an unknowable language, but it evokes a feeling of calm. It holds its hands out and sings again, but this time the song brings forth something tangible, yet also  **in** tangible. The nameless figure gathers these things in its hands and crushes them, breaking them down into a million billion pieces, and when it’s done it takes a deep breath and scatters them throughout the world. No sooner than it’s finished, the earth is set ablaze with a new kind of life. Animals, fae, insects, all spring forth from the land.

The figure smiles once more, but just as it raises its hands to create something new yet another figure forms. One of equal stature but opposing appearance. It sings in a similar unknowable language, but at a different frequency, and one that seems to bother the first figure. The first figure sings something in return but the sickly white figure screeches, and as soon as it does a portion of the earth dims. The hollowed out figure continues to wail and wreak havoc, raising a hand and raking it through the earth. From the Earth’s wounds, black liquid rises, and from that liquid emerge putrid beings that taint the once rich plains with their empty moans and infectious ways.

_ Gaia. She grows weak,  _ an unseen voice sings into the growing void the two figures inhabit.

_ Fallow,  _ the voice continues, unheard by the two beings but all too real for Sam and Bucky.

_ Long ago, six gifts were created by the divine, our goddess, Gaia. She created the heavens and the earth, and with them,  _ **_life_ ** _. But her actions did not go unnoticed, for Fallow was always one step behind Gaia, watching and waiting. Where Gaia was fertility, Fallow was a barren field. Where Gaia created love and peace, Fallow brought forth war and hatred.  _

_ Fallow had grown accustomed to a lifeless cosmos, but Gaia grew weary as the eons passed, and from her weariness inspiration was born. An inspiration that gave birth to fully realized creations of varying size and shape, all bestowed with Gaia’s six gifts: Time, Knowledge, Power, Creation, Freedom, and Sight. _

_ Despite favoring the barren edges of the cosmos, Fallow grew angry and jealous over time, and it was this anger that gave rise to Fallow’s first and only gift to Gaia’s children: Destruction. However, Fallow disguised this gift as Desire, assuming that Gaia was naive. But Gaia knew, and as such she created Truth, a gift she only bestowed upon a sacred few that she enlisted to maintain the balance. _

_ When all but a few of Gaia’s creations were tainted by the darkness residing in Fallow that urged them to fight for Power with an almost singular focus, Gaia mustered up the last of her will and created the last gift she would ever give to her children. It is this gift that holds the power to destroy Fallow and her putrid minions of destruction, this the gift of - _

Suddenly everything spins, and the disembodied voice disappears, as does the immaterial plain depicting the war between Gaia and Fallow. Sam jerks backward and tries to speak, but very little comes out. “I - I…”

Bucky takes a moment to scan the nightclub, unaffected by the vision. Everyone is off in their own little world, thankfully, so he takes the remaining time they have left to say, “Your grandmother Octavia was a high priestess who enlisted warriors to fight against Fallow. She was one of the last Guardians of Truth.”

“And I’m -”

“The heir to her throne, so to speak. One of two remaining Guardians left on the North American continent.” Bucky sighs and takes off his jacket. “Not many people believe in your kind anymore, but your importance is anything but imagined.”

“My kind?”

“Guardians. It’s not just a title, you’re an entire race descended from Gaia’s hand, and you’re dying out,” Bucky explains as he rolls up the sleeve to his shirt, revealing his left arm. He removes the glove covering his left hand. “Your grandmother was one of the most prominent Guardians of her time, and the mages she trained help to create this.”

“Your prosthetic,” Sam gathers. “May I?”

Bucky rests his arm on the table, face up, allowing Sam to look it over. “It’s more than a prosthetic. The magic that’s woven into the metal alloy allows it to change form as naturally as my organic body does when I shift.”

“What are you exactly?” Sam asks quietly. “I haven’t seen you do anything out of the ordinary, but you’re fast when you fight, almost too fast for me to comprehend.”

“I’m not sure if you’d believe me even if I told you,” Bucky says, “Besides, it’s not important. All you need to know is that my family was loyal to Octavia and her cause before she disappeared, and that’s why I’m here to protect you.”

Sam groans. “Look, I’m not some all powerful being. I’m just a guy from Harlem that can control electricity, and that’s only on a good day. What you showed me -” Sam turns away and looks into the small crowd of people on the dance floor. “What you showed me requires someone a lot more practiced.”

“Being untrained and being incapable are two different things. You’re untrained.”

“What, are you gonna train me?” Sam snorts.

Bucky plucks his glove from the table and puts it back on. “No, your grandmother is.”

“ _ Excuse me _ ? She’s  **dead** .” Sam’s face closes off then, and it’s in that moment that Bucky can tell the road ahead will be a rough one.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize being dead meant you had nothing left to offer in terms of wisdom,” Bucky retorts. “I  _ know _ . I know she’s dead. I wouldn’t be speaking to you if she wasn’t. But she is, and you’re all I’ve got right now.”

He finishes adjusting his clothing and slips on his jacket again. “Your grandmother was capable of moving mountains, both real and metaphorical. My job isn’t to make you realize that, I’m here to keep you safe so you can realize it on your own time. I can help you, but at the end of the day it’s a choice, and one only you can make.” Bucky looks at Sam and presses them with a look. “Unfortunately, your grandmother knew she was going to die before she met you, and it was for that reason she wrote down everything she knew so it could be passed on.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “So we start there then.”

“There’s a catch,” Bucky says, scanning the room one more time. He spots a figure looking in their direction for a little too long. “The book has been missing for years. No one knows where it is. Not even your grandmother’s remaining confidants.”

“Great,” Sam huffs. “So what do you propose?”

Bucky places a hand on Sam’s cheek and leans in to whisper, “Act cool. There’s someone watching us.” He leans back just enough to look Sam in the eyes and says, “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Sam’s eyes waver, but they nod. “For now.”

“Good, close your eyes.” Bucky places his other hand on Sam’s face and positions his thumbs over Sam’s mouth before ‘kissing’ them. He draws it out and when he backs away the man who was watching them has moved on. “We need to move, but I need to know if you’re in this or not.”

Sam looks frightened. “Do I have a choice?”

“Always, but there might be one that’s more realistic if survival is the game you want to play. I can tell you right now that this isn’t the easy path, and you’re going to have to push aside everything you think you know in order to do this.” He removes his hands from Sam’s face. “So, tell me, Sam. Are you coming with me, or am I walking alone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for hanging in there.
> 
> Remember this is just the prologue to a bigger story, so I gotta keep you on the edge of your seats. Hopefully I did that without making the ending too abrupt, but if you want to yell or scream or find out more then come find me [@zamwilson](http://zamwilson.tumblr.com)!!!


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